


Flash

by boxoftheskyking



Category: The Maze Runner Series - James Dashner
Genre: Brain Damage, Cuddles, F/M, M/M, Panic Attack, h/c
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-09-18
Updated: 2013-09-18
Packaged: 2017-12-26 22:40:40
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,075
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/971141
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/boxoftheskyking/pseuds/boxoftheskyking
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Everyone is incredibly screwed up, but Minho and Thomas can get by. Mostly</p>
            </blockquote>





	Flash

**Author's Note:**

> This is not a scientific study on panic attacks, flashbacks, or the treatment thereof. Different techniques work for different people, and I'm hypothesizing that having people poke at your brain for ten years will alter some of your reactions to things.

"Keep quiet," Thomas whispers. 

Brenda shoots him an annoyed look, but says nothing, pistol at the ready. The deer stops, just ahead of them, and they freeze in a synchronized crouch. Thomas levels his own gun, waits for the deer to take a few steps and stop again, and fires. The bullet tears through the soft flesh of the deer’s throat, just to the left of the center. It takes a few staggering steps, then falls with a thud.

"Nice shot!" Brenda squeezes his shoulder. "Thank goodness for Munie cooks, right?"

Thomas says nothing. The trees around him start to blur, strangely. He shakes his head, irritated, and walks over to the deer. It isn’t entirely dead yet, eyes rolling, sides heaving, blood welling with every frantic heartbeat. The trees blur out entirely, the whites of the deer’s eyes seem to grow past the confines of their sockets, the smell of blood feels like a physical thing, a fog, seeping into his pores.

"Please, Tommy. Please."

Thomas drops to his knees. The deer looks at him, knowing, kind. The breath punches out of him and there’s a high-pitched keening, all around him, drilling into his brain.

( _"Thomas? Thomas, what’s wrong? Are you hurt?"_ )

"Please, Tommy. Please."

The deer isn’t a deer. It never was. Newt looks at him, knowing, kind.

"I’m sorry," Thomas breathes. "I’m so sorry." His hands cover the wound, trying desperately to stop the bleeding, but it wells up under his hands and slips out between his fingers. 

"No," Newt struggles to swallow. Shouldn’t be able to speak with a hole in his neck, but he does. "It’s better like this. It will be better."

"That’s crazy. You’re talking crazy. Stop it, lie still and let me get help."

( _"Thomas? Can you stand up? Stand up for me. Thomas, can you hear me?"_ )

His hands are shaking, Newt covers them, holds them still.

"It’s the right thing to do. I lied to you. I deserve this. I lied to you."

“ _Never,”_ Thomas almost spits it. “You never,  _never_  lied to me.”

"I did. You deserved better than that."

“ _Never—_ ”

"I said I hated you. I don’t. I don’t hate you, Tommy. I promise you I don’t."

"I know." He’s been crying, and he notices it suddenly. "I know, I know. You weren’t you, it’s okay."

"It’s better this way." Newt’s head lolls back and Thomas lunges forward to pull him closer, whimpering. Newt shudders and his eyes focus somewhere near Thomas’ face.

( _"What are you—? Don’t— Okay. Okay, Thomas, just stay right there. I’m going to get help. It’s okay, I’ll be right back. Just stay— Stay there."_ )

"Hey," Newt whispers. "Hey, maybe I’ll get to see Alby. Tommy, you can send me to him. You can. It’s been so horrible—" he takes a wet, shuddering breath. "—without him. So … Like walking around with my bloody skin ripped off, ripped clean off. To be without him. Did you know that? Do you have any idea what that feels like?"

"I’m sorry, Newt. I’m so sorry."

"To feel your skin come off? I wasn’t ever supposed to be without him. Not for so long."

"I never knew. Newt, I’m so sorry. I didn’t know."

"You can fix it. Make it better. Thank you. Thank—"

Thomas pulls the trigger again. Newt jerks, his eyes roll back in his head, his arms shift, straighten, shrink, his skin twists, roughens, pulls back, his face distorts.

Thomas screams and jerks back, dropping the deer, ripping at his blood-stained shirt. He can’t stop screaming. He pulls the trigger again, again. Everything goes white, the deer’s eyes growing, obscuring everything, trees, mud, sky. Thomas screams and the world goes blank.

 

 

"Minho! Where’s Minho?" Brenda grabs the shoulder of the first person she sees. The town, such as it is, is arranged parallel to the meandering shoreline. Minho’s house - for lack of a better word - is near the center, attached to the Gathering Hall. The houses are still under construction, mostly, as they’ve only been in this country a month now. She sees him hauling timber towards Debbie’s new house, which will eventually double as a Med-jack. 

"Minho!"

He sets the wood down and meets her halfway, recognizing the terror in her voice.

"What is it?"

"Thomas. Minho, it’s Thomas. I don’t know what’s wrong—"

"Is he hurt?" Minho is already moving in the direction of the woods.

"I don’t know. He’s acting crazy, shouting. We were just hunting, just like usual. I don’t know if he’s sick, or—"

"I’ll come with you," Debbie says, having followed Minho from her house. "You might need help. Medical help."

Minho nods once, the jobs off towards the woods, waiting for Brenda to lead the way.

"Thomas? Where is he—?" Minho skids to a halt, nearly tripping over a stump.

The deer is almost decapitated, neck shredded by bullets. Thomas is on the ground in front of it, backed against the trunk of a tree, pulling at his hair and nearly hyperventilating.

Brenda runs to his side. “Thomas? Hey, hey, Thomas, it’s okay. It’s dead.”

"Dead," Thomas gasps. He keens, high in the back of his throat, and pulls his knees in to his chest.

"What’s wrong with him? Is it the Swipe, something they put in his brain?" She looks desperately up at the others. Minho kneels cautiously down on Thomas’ other side as the boy begins to rock back and forth, whimpering. There’s blood in his hair, on his face, and his shirt is torn down the front and hanging open.

"Could be," Debbie says. "Or it could just be a flashback. He’s obviously suffering pretty severe post-traumatic stress. You all are. Hell,  _I_  am.”

”’ _Just_ ' a flashback?” Minho snaps at her. “‘Just'?”

"You know what I mean. Nothing unnatural."

"There is nothing natural about any of this." He is almost shaking, glaring up at her. "Help me get him home."

"His house isn’t done yet; he’s been sleeping in the Gathering Hall," Brenda says. "But there’s others there. Sonya—"

"We’ll take him to mine." Minho leans forward to get an arm around Thomas’ back.

"Wait." Debbie grabs his arm. "Some people— During a flashback or a panic attack, some people shouldn’t be touched."

"He should," Minho says, shortly.

"How can you be—"

Minho glares at her. “You heard the whole story, right? You know everything that happened to us, everything they did to  _him_? Full disclosure policy. Everyone hears the story, everybody will once they’re old enough.”

"Yes, I—"

"You really think this is his first panic attack?"

"I—"

"Help me get him home."

They shut up and help him, dragging a limp Thomas to his feet. Brenda and Minho half-carry him between them, one arm over each of their shoulders, while Debbie leads the way back to town.

Right at the edge of the woods, they stumble over an unseen root, jarring him. He rips his arms away from them before they can catch him and falls to his hands and knees, crawling desperately away.

"Thomas!" Brenda cries, easily catching up to him and pulling him close.

He starts screaming, pushing her off, scratching at her arms.

"Hey! Hey, hey, hey, calm down." Minho tackles him from behind and clamps his arms down to his sides. "You’re okay. You’re okay."

"No, no, no, no," Thomas whimpers, kicking out. "Please, please, no more."

"It’s okay, Tommy. You’re okay." Minho’s voice sounds tight, like it’s stuck in his throat. 

"Brenda, take his legs. Let’s get him inside."

People are starting to stare as they awkwardly get him in a straitjacket hold, Brenda keeping his legs together and Minho holding his torso.

"We’re almost home, Thomas, it’s okay." Minho keeps muttering in his ear as they make their way past crowds that have fallen silent, watching. "What?" he calls out at one group of men as they pass. "No work to do? Everything’s all done? Plenty of time to just watch the show?"

The men turn away, embarrassed.

"Would you look at those klunkheads? Sitting on their asses, waiting for somebody else to get everything done."

Thomas does not react, still kicking and shouting. It seems to take hours to reach Minho’s house and wrestle Thomas down onto the makeshift sleeping mat. Frypan looks up in surprise from his place by the wall. 

"Bad day?" he asks. Brenda and Debbie stare at him.

"What?" Brenda snaps, amazed at his lack of concern.

"Yeah. Worse that usual, I’d say." Minho gently lets go, holding on to Thomas’ shoulders when he starts thrashing again.

"Right. Need a hand?"

"I got it. Debbie, thanks, but we’re good here."

"Are you—"

"Go. Please. Thanks. Just, leave, please. Brenda, you too."

"The hell I will!"

Debbie reluctantly goes to the door. “Let me know if you, you know, need anything. At all.”

"Will do. Brenda, seriously, leave."

"No!"

"Then go sit by Frypan!" Minho snaps. "You’ll just confuse him."

To Brenda’s surprise, he turns Thomas on the mat and crawls over him, lying on his side and securing his arms and legs around Thomas’.

"Hey," he says quietly. "Slim it and get some shut eye, okay? It’s just a bad dream."

Thomas thrashes, but not quite as violently as before.

Brenda steps back and sits beside Frypan. He’s carving something, a spoon, it looks like, occasionally glancing up at the other boys before going back to work.

"This happen a lot?" she asks him, quietly.

He shrugs. “Now and again. He’s not the only one.”

"No?"

"No. It’s good to have someone to help you through it. Clint’s mine, when I need it. And I’m his. You know. Minho’s had his fair share of bad nights himself."

Thomas stops shaking, but his desperate cries continue. He gets one hand free and scratches at his own chest, the blood drying on his skin.

"Hey!" Minho says. "Stop that."

"Newt," Thomas cries. "He’s gone. He’s gone, I let him -  I made him— I—"

"Would you be quiet? Everything’s fine."

"But Newt—"

"Quiet, or you’ll wake him up."

Thomas hushes, sobs more quietly.

"Howling loud enough to wake the dead." Minho sounds like he’s trying to be harsh, but it comes out soft. He tucks his face into the curve of Thomas’ neck breathing evenly. "Come on now, come back. Just a bad dream."

Thomas takes a few deep, shuddering breaths. “Just— Just a dream,” he mumbles.

"That’s right."

"I’m sorry," he says in the smallest voice Brenda’s ever heard. 

Minho shakes his head, holds on tighter. “Don’t.”

"I am."

"You gonna wear my ears out with the same old klunk?"

Thomas turns around, still shaky, until he’s facing his friend. Minho’s arms loosen slightly around him, but don’t let go. Frypan focuses harder on his carving. 

"You shouldn’t have to put up with me."

"Slim it."

"I ruined dinner."

Minho snorts. “Plenty of meat left. You only had like three bullets.”

"Wasted them."

"Yeah, well, you’re you." Minho smirks at him, but Thomas doesn’t smile back.

"Minho."

"That’s me."

"You can’t leave."

Minho scoffs. “Where the shuck would I go? In case you hadn’t noticed, the world ended.”

"No," Thomas pulls back to look him in the eye. "I mean it. You can’t leave. It’ll rip my skin off."

"Whoa. Stop talking like a Crank."

"I mean it. Don’t … Don’t go anywhere. Okay? Don’t leave."

"We’re leaders, remember? We stick together."

Thomas stares at him silently, long enough that Minho breaks eye contact and rolls his neck uncomfortably.

"Minho," Thomas says, and his voice isn’t small or shaky anymore. Minho looks back at him, and the last remnants of a smirk slides off his face. Thomas nods slightly. Minho opens his mouth to say something, but shuts it and stays silent.

Brenda wishes she had something to work on, like Frypan. Something to do with her hands.

Minho nods, after a long, quiet moment, and leans forward to press his forehead against Thomas’. Brenda looks down at her empty hands. She hears a sniff a few minutes later, and looks up to see Minho sitting up, brushing dried blood of his hands with a disgusted look. Thomas turns onto his back and rubs at his eyes with his torn shirt. He looks over at Brenda and gives her a rueful smile.

"This is my only shirt," he says. His hands shake a bit as he pulls the torn halves together.

She smiles back at him, gently. “It looks fine.” 


End file.
